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“It’s not true. Tell me it’s not true, Nate.”
I should reprimand her for not calling me Uncle like I usually do, but this is neither the time nor the place.
“Denial won’t help you. The sooner you accept reality, the faster you can deal with it.”
“No.” She grits her teeth, then lets out another haunted, “No…”
“Let go, Gwyneth.” I try to soften my tone, as much as I’m able to, but it still comes out firm. Like an order.
She shakes her head again, but it’s meek, weak, just like she is beneath my touch. Until now, I’ve never noticed how small she actually is compared to me.
How fragile.
Actually, I did once. When she was pressed up against me with her lips on mine.
But I shouldn’t be thinking about that. I shouldn’t be thinking about how small my best friend’s daughter is or how she feels in my hold when we’re in front of his hospital room.
A muscle clenches in my jaw and I loosen my hold on her shoulders, starting to step away from her.
I’m unprepared for what she does, though.
Completely and utterly taken off guard.
Just like two fucking years ago.
Gwyneth lunges at me and wraps both arms around my waist. And as if that isn’t enough, she stuffs her face in my chest—her damp face.
I can feel the moisture clinging to my shirt and seeping onto my skin. But it doesn’t stop there, no. It’s like acid, melting away the flesh and bones and reaching for an organ I thought only functioned to pump blood.
If my jaw was clenching earlier, I now feel like it’s going to dislocate from how hard I’m gritting my teeth.
“Gwyneth, let go of me.”
She sinks her nails into the material of my jacket, grazing my back, and shakes her head against my shirt. More moisture, more shaking.
She’s like a leaf that’s about to be blown away and destroyed into pieces.
“One minute…” she whispers against my chest.
“Gwyneth,” I warn, my voice guttural and strong, and I can tell she feels it coming from where her face is hiding.
“Please…I have no one but you.”
Her statement makes me pause. The truth behind her words strikes me deep in that little nook she’s been digging for herself since she was eighteen.
Fuck. It’s true.
With Kingsley gone, she has no one but me.
I let that information sink in, recalling his last words to me over the phone. The fact that I should take care of her.
Take care of his fucking daughter.
I forget that I should be pushing her away, throwing her off me. So Gwyneth interprets my silence as approval and does what Gwyneth does best.
Takes liberties.
She presses her body against mine, sniffling into my chest. And the scent of vanilla hits me in my bones. The sound of her weeping is low, haunted, and I know it’s not every day that she shows this side of her to anyone. Especially me.
